I finally feel all right again. I can look at food without feeling sick, but I still feel unreasonably picky: bananas but no apples, grains but no nuts, hard cheeses sound good but not feta. Which is a shame, because I stocked up on fruits and vegetables at the Friday market, and I’ve been busy trying to pawn off my food all weekend in exchange for simple crackers and digestive biscuits. Or, better yet, leaving my stomach alone and not eating anything. Thus, to reconstitute, Shandra and I made amaranth chocolate last night.

Amaranth is a super-nutritious grain, which you can pop like popcorn. Itty-bitty popcorn. It’s like snow in a pot. Then Shandra, my vegetarian mentor flat-mate, comes along with the brilliant idea of mixing the stuff with (organic dark) chocolate to make our own version of crunchy puffed-rice chocolate bars. This was the best — and most substantial — food I’d had in days, but even our non-sick friends liked it. Next time we’ll put in more amaranth, and a bit of chili powder, for a truly Mesoamerican treat.

This morning I tried making quinoa with honey, but I have reaffirmed my dislike of warm breakfast cereal and instead had a banana, some apple juice, and the last ounce or two of chocolate. I don’t want to throw any curve-balls at my digestive system quite yet, so my diet must remain weird. This virus is frustrating to all of us, because it has no correlation with food. Every second or third person at CYA got hit, but so did Prof. Nicola’s daughter’s school. And apparently there was a Greek news item about hospitals being overrun with dehydrated patients. Yet it had all the symptoms of food poisoning, and everyone got it within the same afternoon — even my friend Becky, who was in Istanbul.

But thanks to the pick-me-up chocolate and banana — a neat trick, by the way, is to peel it from the bottom end, which a friend of a friend of friend learned from a monkey — I feel cheery and alive. It has been wonderful learning about thriving as a vegetarian, and I almost want to email Arthur and tell him how very possible it is to be happy and healthy without meat. Except that I don’t want to contend with people about what they eat, drink, and smoke, especially when I tend to internalize lessons without being able to regurgitate the particular facts that evangelicalizing requires. In fact, without a textbook in my hands, I’d probably be a terrible grade-school teacher, as well. So, carnivores, you escape my wrath this time…

I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn’t for you meddling kids.

I am sick, but if I don’t move, I can enjoy the afternoon sun coming through the windows of my room and gentle breeze. There is even a dove walking around on the balcony, assuring me that I’m not going to die, that this thing is going to pass. Maybe I’ll be able to eat solid food again soon. And with my recently aquired obsession for food, the most frustrating part of having my entire digestive tract attacked is not being able to think about eating without feeling nauseous. No, I have decided that a lifetime’s worth of raw cookie dough would not be worth another 24 hours of this. And I didn’t even get to eat the cookie dough this time.

But life is truly good. In my bout of loneliness after Corfu, I asked my parents to help me — there was no way I was going to get through a month traveling through Italy with my sanity unscathed. So they did the best thing ever, and booked an apartment in Spain (thank you Julianne and Dr. Osborne!). That means I get to see my family so much sooner than I expected, and Italy will just have to be one more thing I share with Thomas. It can be hard to be away from the people I love most in the world for so long, but anticipation makes the missing just a little bit sweet.

Knowing that I need a surrogate family wherever I go alone, I made sure to book my Orthodox Easter trip to Naxos and Santorini with so-called pensions or domatia. No more than a half-hour after reserving two nights at Windmill Naxos, in fact, the owner emailed me to ask what time my ferry got in — so he could pick me up! And Nadia, CYA student advisor extraordinaire, hooked me up with another family-run place on Santorini where they make their own bread. I almost had to cancel this little getaway since the ferries were almost full, but in the end the travel agent found me a spot. With everything taken care of, and ferry tickets burning a hole in my desk drawer, my trip to two of the most beautiful Aegean Islands promises to entirely pleasant.

As soon as I feel better, I will upload my photos of Greek Independence Day and Thessoloniki. Last weekend was filled with Byzantine hymns, seaside cafes, the longest bus ride ever, a man named Vladimir who insisted his accent was Cockney, stolen buffet food, and a roadside stop that will make my guy friends drool (it will suffice to say: This… is… Sparta!).

My vegetarianism is 50% health paranoia and 50% environmental concern, so I don’t begrudge the meat eater their animal flesh. There are many better ways to improve the world than not supported certain industries. That said, I do ask people to be aware of the lifestyle choices they make and the impact those decisions have on the planet and on other living things. If you eat meat but don’t want to think about what that entails, don’t except me to respect you for it. In a different world I would eat meat — but not in this one.

I don’t drink alcohol or coffee because I don’t like the taste, not because I disapprove. However, I do disapprove of alcohol in excess. Drunk people all too often do destructive and dangerous things that they did not mean to do. Even in its milder abuses, alcohol can become a social crutch and an excuse to do stupid things. Fine, get wasted, but please don’t expect me to hang around while you do so or listen to stories about what you don’t remember doing.

Smoking… smoking is just gross. I don’t know why people do it, knowing full well how bad it is for their health. I don’t want my friends dying of perfectly preventable forms of cancer, and I don’t want to avoid them because they smell bad. That said, if you smoke a pipe, I may have to indulge myself of a whiff or two. Just let me know if you discover a better way to get clothes to smell like pipe tobacco.

I love chocolate, but I can easily go a full month without craving it. It makes me feel outright unfeminine sometimes, the way I blithely ignore monthly cycles, department store sales, and bare-chested men. And I’m afraid I can’t help staring at the high-heeled Greek girls with their skunk-poofed hair and ridiculously ginormous sun-goggles. I may never understand why makeup has become practically mandatory, or why designer clothes only fit photoshopped models, but go ahead and partake of popular feminine consumer culture. Just don’t ask me to shave my legs, read women’s magazines, or plaster myself in “DG” logos.

This has been a mostly pointless rant, except to say that I do not know what I would give up for Lent were I Orthodox. Perhaps it’s just an excuse to be opinionated.

Day 1: Clean Monday

Well, I was happy to find the metro and trains running on a holiday. It was supremely easy to get to the station and buy a ticket to Kalambaka. For almost six hours I watched the scenery go by and ate figs — I was worried for a bit because it took longer than expected. Apparently I got the cheaper but slower train.

No matter, I arrived just before siesta and found a pleasant and sunny town curving aound the giant majestic pillars of rock. Somehow they arranged it so all the buildings look alike: white plaster walls with burnt-orange terra-cotta roof tiles. This is popular everywhere in Greece, but the effect of the uniformity was striking when I looked down from the cliffs and saw the small sea of red and white.

I decided to find the Koka Roka, a family-run inn and taverna in the corner of Kalambaka. Thank you, Lonely Planet. It was right next to the entrance to the trail to the Holy Trinity monastery, so the lady who runs the place suggested I do that today and the other tomorrow. Thus began my afternoon adventure.

First off, I was exactly one minute too late. It was a bit of a hike, as you might expect, but all through lovely woods on a cobbled path. Oh well, I say to myself, the day is young. I’ll just walk along the road until I get to the other monasteries, if only to see what time they open tomorrow.

But the road was dangerous without shoulders and with plenty of curves (a description befitting an ill-porportioned woman). The first chance I got, I cut over to a little trail that went along the valley. Goat trails, however, are not hiking trails. More than once I had to cut through spiky shrubbery.

This was still much better than the second so-called trail I took, which was not a trail all, but rather a dried stream bed. Water can go places even goats can’t go, but I was seduced by the easier sections promised ahead and proceeded boulder and bushwhack my way through patches of wildflowers, great wards of rock, and stunted acacia. Finally I hit an actual stream and could go no further.

By this time I had finished my water and realized it was the only full bottle I had drunk all day. I also hadn’t used the bathroom since the train ride. Sweaty and slightly dehydrated, but thankfully not hungry or unhappy, I turned around and maneuvered back up to the road.

It was a long but not completely unpleasant walk back to the Koka Roka. The low-hanging sun sent beams of light through the clouds as if heaven itself were touching the precarious monasteries. The giant natural towers, smooth as sandstone, framed the town below me and cupped the alpine meadows and medieval forest between them.

I think I must treat my body well enough that it can suffer a bit without complaint, though I drank about 16 oz within minutes of my triumphant return. There are few people about, but then again, it was only 5:30 when I got back. It hardly seems possibly that my adventure took only three hours, especially when I walked across Athens for four on Friday without blinking an eye. Perhaps I underestimated the power of goat trails… clearly they have time-bending abilities.

Day 2

After reading all the wonderful reviews written in the guest books, I decided it was high time to introduce myself to the owners of the Koka Roka. The woman who started it is named Katarina. She lived in Australia for several years before returning to Meteroa and building a house, and then a taverna. Apparently two decades ago people just slept outside, and even today I passed a couple campers on my (second) hike up the cliffs. So due to interest in warm squishy beds, she added a couple big rooms — the smallest of which, mine, still has two beds in it. Now Katarina runs the place with her son Arthur (or Psyche as she calls him, a man who speaks broken English with an Australian accent) and normally his wife (but she just gave birth to a son). I think her husband also helps, because I ran into him on the upper roads collected firewood in the Koka Roka van.

Arthur is very opinionated. I discovered this during lunch when a British yuppie wandered in to ask for directions. Arthur is not in the habit of giving free information to people who aren’t customers and don’t even say hello. Then somehow it slipped that I was a vegetarian — perhaps a natural subject to come up after eating Katarina’s Lenten feast of rice and cabbage, a surprisingly scrumptious dish. Man, did he think I was a fool. Humans eat meat! It’s who we are! Look at cats, even cats eat meat! Your teeth will rot, your hair will fall out! You body will be deficient in iron and vital nutrients (he refers me to Wikipedia), and your future children will suffer for it! Eat meat, if only once a week — wait to become a vegetarian after menopause, he said while gesturing to his imaginary uterus. I promised to think about it.

(By the way, he is right about vegetarians needing to be careful to adjust their diets to a meat-free existence, but I already love nuts and lentils. And molasses will surely solve all my iron and calcium needs.)

But rewind to before lunch, when I spent four morning hours hiking (this time only by dusty road and official path) to monasteries on high. The first one, Moni Agias Triados, was the set of For Your Eyes Only, continuing my James Bond pilgrimage. Yet it was also the quietest and least touristy, small, without even a gift shop. Instead it boasted a lovely garden out back, and the man I bought my ticket from gave me a delicious honey-walnut pastry covered in coconut.

The other two monasteries were more crowded and less friendly, though they boasted magnificent architecture and had picturesque scenery. Moni Agias Varvaras and Moni Varlaam were their names, though the latter I accidently walked into without paying and then walked out again without seeing the church — a large noisy tourist group was in the way.

My scarf came in handy today. Not only did it convert to a shawl, a convenient extra layer, but it served as a wraparound skirt modest enough for a monastery. I don’t know why, but they’re not much into pants for women. Even if the female traveller forgets to bring a skirt, they have some on hand.

In the afternoon I walked around Kalambaka Yes, I had not yet done enough walking for one day! The thin cloud layer kept it warm and bright, without the sun getting oppressive. At some point while wandering the sleepy alleys I came across a pair of cats trying — and failing — to copulate. I stood staring, rather amused by the comedy of errors, while several of their companions watched back. Suddenly I realized an old man was also watching me, and I self-consciously moved on, leaving the sexually-frustrated couple to sort things out.

Now I retire for siesta. Tonight, Greek Salad — tomorrow, I dine in Corfu!

Day 3

That’s it, I can’t travel alone. It’s all well and good when things go smoothy, but when the going gets tough, the stressed out Sarah-bean becomes completely miserable. Not that today was horrible: my buses were not only on time, but actually arrived at their destinations early. The scenery was beautiful and diverse: snowy mountain passes, roadside bee-boxes overlooking olive-lined valleys, the blue lake next to Ioannina, and the turquoise Ionian sea.

But Lonely Planet failed me in quaint old Corfu Town. The map got me lost rather than found, and their suggest hotels were shut down — everyone was renovating before the high season. The tourist info place said hotels could not be had for less than 70 euro a night, and even those were scarce on the ground. It took half of Corfu Town to help me through the winding streets to waterfront Hotel Astron, from the first man who noticed me wandering aimlessly and nearly in tears, to the group of kafenio guys who I had to ask twice.

Hotel Astron, however, is also under construction. I bargained down to 35 euro per night, but with drilling going on in the wall next to my room at 8:00 in the evening, I think it’s still too much money. So it goes. At least I have a room, and it’s big and clean and in a prime location for walking along the water. Which I did.

Everyone seems so friendly here. Even the gyros guy was more inviting than the one back in Pangrati. Still, I managed to get sauce on my pants, and when Thomas tried to call later on, I was stuck with two wet pairs (I was overzealous with my laundry) and couldn’t go outside to get any mobile service. Great, just when I needed someone to talk to, too. I was left completely alone and upset, with only the obnoxious drilling to keep me company.

Day 4

I had pie for breakfast, and would have had ice cream for lunch if it was in season. Not only is it not the season for ice cream or hotels, but most of the sights in the guidebook are closed for winter. So I set out to find my way out of Corfu Town to see the countryside!

About the most wilderness I made it to was a squat toilet at a gas station and the peaceful British Cemetery. The roads led me around the outskirts and by the sea, which was just as well, as I got a portrait of a charming town that felt like a cross between Key West and somewhere in New Zealand. It’s not quite a city, as evidenced by the fact that everyone knew each other and greeted one another on the street. I myself managed to run into several of the men who helped me out yesterday, exchanging greetings like old neighbors.

I walked around, then walked around some more. I burned my nose, watched pidgeons, found an organic food store — which I visited three times — read my guidebook, and when I was bored, I began walking yet again. At times I wanted to avoid people, but at other times I was starved for human company. At some point I spent too long trying on shirts in a souvenir shop run by an overly-friendly old woman. She gave me free postcards, even though I didn’t find anything I liked, and I walked away feeling a little guilty for not buying anything.

I tried taking a nap during siesta, but barely slept half an hour before setting off again to eat dinner. Then I joined the town for an evening volta. This primarily involves, perhaps predictably, walking. Next time I travel I’ve got to brink a book, because at this point my feet are getting sore!

Yia’sou, Corfu. I hope to return someday.

Day 5

I have returned to Athens, which feels something like home. On the bus back, I met an older man named Robert, who picked me out as English-speaking. It turns out he’s from Washington, but traveling the world for five months. We talked for hours, and when we finally reached Athens, I helped him navigate to his hostel, and then we went to a local taverna to continue the conversation. By the time we finished eating, we had managed to make it through the tough subjects of politics and religion without killing each other, which I think marks us both as reasonable people whatever our opinions. We exchanged email addresses, so perhaps we will meet up again before he flies to Egypt.

Phew, what an exhausting day! Full of puppies, lemon chocolate, and engaging discussion, I was saved from a day lost to travel.

Well, I finally got sick. I think it was the stress of these darned midterms that caught up with me this weekend, but I am more fortunate than some. Mine is only a head cold, while others actually missed exams. I’m also fortunate in that I have had less work to do, and I finished my one paper as soon as I felt the cold coming on… just in case. This allowed me the indulgence of watching Romeo and Juliet and eating pistachio pudding with Aubrey while everyone else studied.

As I should be studying myself for my last midterm, it occurred to me that I needn’t be stressed out about grades. Not only because they don’t calculate into my Reed GPA, but because my GPA doesn’t matter anyway. I am still on the fence as to whether to study industrial design institutionally. My Product Design class in Milan will help me decide of course, but art school doesn’t sound quite my style (from what I’ve heard). Half the designers I’ve talked to or admire are self-taught anyway.

A much more appealing alternative would be to find internships and apprenticeships, and a particularly exciting opportunity may be falling into my lap as I speak. (Not counting chickens… not… counting…) It’s not design-related per se, but what is design but life itself? I don’t mean that to be quite so profound, I am simply a designer in whatever I do. I always find the world to come up short, so I think very hard about ways to make it satisfactory. So far I am rather self-centered in my thinking, but I hope someday to do something that makes other people as happy as it makes me. Kudos to everyone who ever followed their passion and did something great.

And in other news… um… Flatland: The Movie? Perhaps Peter Jackson can do The Planiverse next and I can die happy.